August 28^th I warmed up like I always did. I walked the field like I always did, listened to the music I always listened to. I joked around with my old teammate in the tunnel like always. I took the field like I always did. I played 90 minutes like I always did.

That was seventy-eight days ago. It was the last time I played in a real match, and the number of days since I did the things I always used to do keeps growing. 

It seems like all of sudden numbers are super important to me. The number of days since my last practice, the number of days since my MRI, the number of days since my doctor’s appointment. And soon, I will care about the number of days since my operation.

Hold on… In order to be dramatic and ominous, I realize I have left out some pretty important details. Like, here I am droning on, but I should probably provide some context.

Basically, I picked up a knock in my last league game. I landed strangely on my knee after jumping. It wasn’t anything super serious, at first, just an annoying pain. Me being me, I kept practicing on it, and it kept getting worse. Eventually, I couldn’t play anymore. I got an MRI, and it showed a very small tear in my meniscus. I rested, did a PRP injection, and started training again. Sure, my “recovery” was accelerated. But, I was excited to get back, and I didn’t notice any problems. My first full week of training was capped with a friendly match; I was slated to play a majority of the second half. About 10-15 minutes after being subbed in, I felt a pop in the back of my knee. It wasn’t unlike anything I had felt before. It wasn’t super painful, but I knew I couldn’t carry on.  I had to be subbed out of the game. However, I held out hope it was just a sign of fatigue from my first full week back. After another MRI, and another doctor’s appointment, I found out I had a tear in the posterior horn of my medial meniscus.

I needed an operation.

I thought maybe it would be just a little meniscus surgery. You know, everyone has had one of those right? A little 4 to 6 week recovery and I’m good to go before the next round. NOPE, the doctor shut that idea down almost immediately. The thing about me is I like to go BIG. Like a simple little meniscus injury??? Nope nahh boo boring. I decided that my meniscus should be flapping off the bone. Just falling off like some good ribs. So yeah, my meniscus must be repaired, sutured back down to the bone. I’ll be out for 4-6 months. But fret not, there is some good news. My original small meniscus tear is healed! This injury is something completely new! Absolutely fantastic.  

So now, I’m just here counting the days since I’ve done the things I used to do. In a way, I’m stuck. I’m stuck in the cycle of calm, anger, hope, and hopelessness. When the doctor told me I needed an operation, I didn’t freak out. There was no falling on the floor in hysterics. I laughed. I was calm. I asked all the right questions about the timeline of injury, what the operation would look like, and my overall prognosis. When I called my family and friends sure I let out a few tears, but I was laughing. I was calm. My teammates even commented on my ability to stay positive despite the situation. I really thought I was fine. SPOILER ALERT! In surprise to absolutely no one except for me: I wasn’t/I’m not at all fine. I get hit with the most intense waves of anger. I mean, it has been seventy-eight days since I have played in a real game and NOW I need surgery. How does that happen?  How have I missed almost the entire first round of the season. Just when I was supposed to make my return, there’s something new with the potential to keep me out of the second round as well? I’m stuck with this constant feeling of unfairness and constantly questioning, “why me.” I’m not just angry; I am pissed. I’m pissed at my club, my teammates, my coaches, but mostly myself. I’m literally angry at every single person as if they crawled into my knee and pulled my meniscus out of place. I’ve never felt this level of just pure rage before even though I know it is often misplaced.

 

But just as I feel like I’m about to punch someone,  I think about my operation and get almost excited. It marks a transition. Right now, it feels like this is all just something that is happening TO me, but I have no control. The operation marks the beginning of me actually DOING something about my injury. When I think of it in this way it’s a little bit easier to digest. I’m actively taking steps to solve my problem and on my way back to playing. I feel like I’ve accepted that this has happened; I’m almost ok with it. Immediately following this small sliver of acceptance, I’m hit with a wave of hopelessness. I feel stupid for even entertaining the idea that any part of this will work out. Like no matter what decisions I make, it’s the wrong one. Like there’s no point in even trying because recovery is impossible. I feel completely useless. I came to Poland to play soccer. Now I can’t play; so, what’s the point? But just as I’m ready to quit, I completely snap myself out of it and I’m in another period of calm. Whenever I get comfortable in any emotion, whether it is positive or negative. I’m thrown into something new. I’m never allowed to really feel any one thing because I’m getting punched in the throat by something else. I’m stuck in this fluctuation of highs to extreme lows; it is completely exhausting. So, I’m here, stuck fighting with myself over these emotions while also navigating the “how are you texts,” sending hearts after all the “we’re waiting for you,” and “you’ll come back stronger” messages. I’m stuck either trying to convince other people that the battle between me and my emotions is one I’m winning, or convincing them there’s no battle at all. I’m stuck typing out paragraphs about my feelings just to delete them, replacing sentences with “I’m fine.”

The most painful part of being stuck, though, is being stuck in nostalgia. I’m stuck in “since.” I’m stuck in remembering what it was like to slide tackle or block a shot. I’m stuck longing to ping long balls after practice. I STG I’m even stuck missing being caught in the middle during pre-practice rondo, after you’ve been split or megged like five times. This is what happens when you’re injured; you are stuck remembering when you could play and dreaming about playing again because you’re capable of doing neither. You’re stuck in doctor’s offices, in training rooms. You’re not even stuck on the sidelines. Dear God, I would kill to be stuck on the sidelines. Now, I’m stuck in the stands, I’m stuck watching from my laptop. I’m stuck counting the days since.

Seventy-eight. It has been that many days since I’ve played a league game and nineteen days since the last time I touched a ball. At least for the next 4-5 months counting will be very important to me,  I am looking forward to the shift in counting days “since” to days “until.” The shift from “number of days since I played” to “number of days until I can play again.” I don’t know if that’s a physical thing that will happen or if it’s more of a mental change. Maybe I could make that change now? I kinda have already, I mean I have been counting down the number of days until my operation. So maybe that will be my turning point.

I know that injuries are a part of sport. I have been truly lucky to have made it this far without a major one. When we get to a high level we accept that we are always playing on borrowed time. Our days of playing are always numbered. We just normally aren’t sat and forced to count them. I know I’ll be back to playing in a bit. As my days “since” grow the days “until” shrink. Soon the “sinces” won’t have as much weight to them. They’ll be more of a memento than a memorial; it’ll be “days since my injury,” “days since surgery,” and everything will just be something that happened to me. Soon after, the days since will even be too large to count. But for now, I just can’t wait until the days I can play again.